Maple and Spice

by Moushmi Biswas

  His voice trailed off. The line beeped over and over, until eventually it cut out by itself.

  Monisha buried her face in her hands. A husband in Wichita, after an eleven-month wait. Still, it had to better than being alone.

  10

  It was thirty-two degrees Celsius outside. As usual, Mumbai airport was chock-a-block. Everywhere people were chattering, sipping cold coffee or picking through platefuls of food with plastic forks: potato-filled pancakes and onion pakoras, or Bombay chaat with tamarind sauce. Monisha stared greedily as she made her way past them. November had come slowly, now time would race away.

  The city, with all its colours, dazzled in the mid-afternoon sun. Sea-greens, turquoises, fiery oranges and gentle mauves on turbans and saris, even on trucks. She breathed in the choking fumes to remind herself she was here. The unmistakable stench of sweat, urine, rotting rubbish and spices hit her at once. Phew! She was here alright.

  Her mother had meticulously planned her itinerary. The first three days would be spent in Sitara Road, for beauty treatments and last-minute shopping. Then the wedding would take up four days. After that they’d head off to Goa for their honeymoon. Just herself and Shailesh.

  After almost a year, she would finally see him in the flesh, feel his touch on her skin, watch his lips move as he spoke. No more crackly telephone conversations. A tingle ran up through her calves. From somewhere in the distance, she heard a familiar voice. It was her cousin Riya.

  “Here comes the bride!”

  Monisha ran up to greet them. Aunt Romila and Riya hugged her, giggling.

  Leela Bastikar stood at a distance shielding the sun out of her eyes with one hand. Almost everything had been arranged now. She rattled off the list in her head: gold, gifts, food, flowers and priest. When Monisha walked towards her, she froze.

  “Mom, are you okay?”

  “She’s not okay,” blurted Aunt Romila. “Her daughter is getting married. God knows how I’ll be when Riya goes.”

  “That’s why I’ll just do it,” said Riya. “Without telling anyone.”

  Mrs Bastikar smiled pensively. She knew what was coming. The residency had created distance. Marriage meant remoteness. Hadn’t she once jumped on a plane with a man she’d barely met while her mother and sister wept at the airport.

  “All the time and effort you spend raising a daughter is for someone else’s benefit,” she huffed. “Like watering your neighbour’s garden.”

  The ten-minute walk to the jeep was painfully silent. As soon as they were all seated, Aunt Romila threw her head back and broke the ice. “Shailesh’s sister is in strife.”

  The driver started up the engine with a splutter, and they pulled slowly out of the car park. A couple of street kids clung to the windows hoping for loose change.

  “Why?” asked Monisha, trying to ignore them.

  Aunt Romila removed her sunglasses and shot her an inquisitive stare. She used formal language when she didn’t want the driver listening in. “Weren’t you made aware? Her husband is cohabiting with another woman. He’s even changed religion to take on a second spouse.”

  Monisha gasped. She was shocked for Ayesha and slightly taken aback that Shailesh had not told her.

  “No… I didn’t know.”

  “He obviously didn’t want any scandal to come out before the wedding,” said Mrs Bastikar.

  Monisha shook her head in disbelief. It was true, Riya said. Their cook’s sister had worked for the Kulkarnis and she knew everything.

  Monisha sat, dumbstruck. When she thought about it, each letter from Shailesh had been filled with minutiae. He told her which birds were outside his window and complained about the soaring price of onions. But he’d never mentioned his brother-in-law leaving. She tried shrugging it off.

  “Perhaps he didn’t tell you in case you changed your mind,” said Riya, slapping her on the thigh. It stung.

  A large bump in the road made them all jump. Suitcases flew up and down in the boot. In one of them was a gift for her mother-in-law, a large, glass vase. Everything was beginning to jangle her nerves.

  Monisha glared at Riya, while rubbing her thigh.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you’ve suddenly inherited a lot of baggage,” whispered Aunt Romila.

  “Baggage?”

  It seemed a strange choice of words. They were talking about her sister-in-law, who would be incomeless if her husband refused to pay alimony. And he could do that now he was living in Dubai.

  Monisha stared out of the window; scores of women lined the roadside. Raven haired, with sparkling white teeth. Each of their futures at the mercy of God and some man.

  “Remember Ayesha has no qualifications,” said Leela Bastikar. “Even if she gets a job, it won’t pay enough. She’s going to be dependent on you.”

  Monisha raised her eyebrows and grunted. She’d waited for this wedding for almost a year and she wasn’t going to let anyone ruin it. But the whole thing seemed quite bizarre. Her mother had always said it was white men who got their wives pregnant and scarpered.

  “I thought this kind of thing didn’t happen here.”

  Riya burst out laughing and made a sweeping motion with her hands.

  “You think you know India because you’ve eaten curries and learned Kathak dance?”

  For a moment, Monisha’s mind wandered back to Mrs Bhatia’s classes. Years she’d spent twirling round hardwood floors in pretty costume, dreaming. Perhaps Riya was right. She had absolutely no clue about what happened here.

  The jeep wound its way into Sitara Road. In place of their dilapidated holiday home stood a gleaming white structure and a new driveway, lined with bamboo poles and boxes of lights. Monisha clapped her hands excitedly. Butterflies flitted wildly round her stomach. This was all for her wedding, for the marquee. The beautiful marquee!

  Monisha gradually made her way into the lounge room behind the others. It was hot. The ceiling fans whirred fruitlessly above their heads. Helpers brought iced water. The women wiped themselves down with damp towels. Monisha ignored the constant trickle of sweat and kept her eyes peeled on all the gifts.

  Every corner was packed with presents: saris, draped neatly over wooden trays and enveloped in cellophane. Gaudy silks. Pale white cotton. Exquisite lacework. Clutch bags and purses. A wallet and golden cuff-links were also wrapped, in clear cellophane, for all to see.

  A thrill shot through her.

  “Are these for us?” she asked, beaming.

  “No,” said Leela Bastikar, “for your in-laws. And they have a new fridge, a new bed… all meant for you, but Ayesha will grab it now.”

  Monisha glowered with rage and put both hands firmly on her hips.

  “Can you just stop it! First, she’s baggage. Now she’s a thief!”

  Rivers of sweat poured down Leela Bastikar’s face.

  “Do you know anything about your sister-in-law?” she hissed. “Or her marriage?”

  Monisha wanted to scream. Her voice rose to a holler. It didn’t matter. The girl had been abandoned and now she’d had a baby. At least some compassion was required!

  Aunt Romila interrupted. “Yes, and now Shailesh is so attached, he doesn’t want to leave Mumbai… until the child is at least two.”

  Monisha surveyed the glittering wedding items. Suddenly a sharp burst of anger jolted through her, then pricked and burned at her skin.

  11

  After a night spent tossing and turning, Monisha arranged to meet Shailesh at his flat in Andheri, even though she knew Swami Vivekananda Road would be gridlocked, her cab would crawl along at a snail’s pace and the driver would keep the meter running. She was desperate to see Shailesh in the flesh and discuss all she’d heard. Could he have really hidden the truth? Her mother’s burning question played over in her mind. How much did she know about her future sister-in-l
aw? Come to think of it, how much did she know about Shailesh?

  She could recognise his curly handwriting instantly and his sombre telephone voice. She was aware that he would be working as a clinical fellow in a place called Hutchinson, near Wichita, under a Dr Cray.

  And that he was going to marry her at the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, in three days’ time.

  After an hour-long, doubly expensive journey, the cab pulled up outside the Kulkarni’s flat. Monisha made her way up the staircase, her sandals slapping against the concrete steps. Her heart raced. Slap. Slap. Three more. Her fingers trembled as she pressed the bell.

  Slowly, the door opened. Monisha bowed her head low and touched the feet of the old lady. Mrs Kulkarni gave her blessing with a smile, then asked her to take a seat while she fetched iced lime water.

  The reception room was tiny. Its drab, grey walls bore a picture of the deceased Mr Kulkarni. Around his neck hung a fresh jasmine garland and, on either side of him, framed embroidered roses. Monisha sat down, clutching the vase she’d brought over as a gift. She carefully studied the picture of Mr Kulkarni and the embroidered roses. It was amateurish, schoolgirl sewing.

  Her future mother-in-law returned with a glass of water on a tray.

  “Thank you, wife,” she said, taking her gift. “Ayesha made the roses,” she added, beaming.

  Monisha nodded quietly. A motorbike roared outside. Her heart began fluttering. Gulp! It was Shailesh.

  He shot up the stairs and barged in, oily sweat pouring off him in puddles. As he entered, Mrs Kulkarni wiped his face, handed him a glass of iced lime water and placed a tower of steaming rice on the dinner table. In one sweeping motion.

  Monisha couldn’t help smiling when she saw him. She had waited eleven months for this moment. Shailesh grinned sheepishly, then walked to the sink. He washed his hands down to his elbows, as a surgeon would scrub. He cast her another quick glance, before becoming distracted by the array of curries on the table.

  “She really looks after me you know,” he said, pointing at his mother.

  Once more, Mrs Kulkarni beamed with pride. Monisha’s smile instantly vanished. She declined Mrs Kulkarni’s offer of lunch.

  “There are things we need to discuss, Shailesh.”

  “Like what?”

  He picked up some rice.

  “Like Ayesha’s situation.”

  He frowned. A spoonful went into his mouth.

  “Are they divorced?” Monisha looked him in the eye. “How is she going to support herself now… and Seema?”

  Shailesh concentrated on mixing his curry and rice. Time stood still. It was a while before her spoke. “Did your mother send you over here to ask?”

  She could feel herself boiling up.

  Mrs Kulkarni looked pleadingly at Monisha. Ayesha would be back soon. She’d done all the shopping, alone. It was mad out there, with the wedding season starting up. And the poor girl was exhausted! Surely, they could discuss this another time.

  She was cut off mid-sentence by Shailesh. “Mother we might as well tell her everything if she’s going to be part of the family.”

  The old lady sighed and eased herself into one of the screechy, wooden dining chairs. Her knees creaked. Shailesh stopped eating and stared vacantly at Monisha. An eerie silence descended across the room. He took in a deep breath.

  “My sister was a beautiful girl. After my father’s death, she went off the rails… Dropped out of university and fell head over heels in love with a gangster.”

  “It was my fault; I couldn’t keep my eye on her,” Mrs Kulkarni spluttered. “I was out trying to earn a living after their father died.”

  Shailesh recounted the story. He was in medical school, his mother was out sewing sheets and Ayesha was riding round ghettos with a criminal, when everyone thought she was in lectures. He paused.

  “Then one night… she was gang raped.”

  Monisha sat bolt upright.

  She’d learned her lesson all right, he said. He’d asked his lawyer friend to press charges, but nothing came of it, so they tried to marry her off. But by then she had a criminal record – and she’d been raped. Shailesh shook his head bitterly.

  “No educated man from a decent family would want a wife like that. We were lucky enough to find Roshan.”

  Mrs Kulkarni took her glasses off and gently brushed away tears. “Most of my jewellery was sold to wipe off her criminal record. The rest went to Roshan as dowry. Then we came here to start afresh.”

  Monisha sat dumbstruck. The story got worse. Ayesha wasn’t pregnant after the rape. The baby was Roshan’s. And he’d known, before he’d upped and left.

  Mrs Kulkarni placed her head in her hands. “Ayesha is under the spell of Saturn, but—” She stopped short when she heard the doorbell.

  Within seconds, Ayesha was standing before them laden with carrier bags. Sweat streamed down her pale skin. Her hip-length plait had thinned. Her face was expressionless. She greeted the bride-to-be and ran to the child’s room. When she found Seema fast asleep, she rushed over to her brother.

  For the next half hour, Monisha watched with horror as Mrs Kulkarni and Ayesha fussed over their beloved Shailesh. Had he eaten enough? Would he like some more chicken? Was it all too spicy? Did he need a peppermint pill? Ugh!

  When he left the table, Ayesha handed him a clean t-shirt and a pair of cotton pyjama trousers. Shailesh threw the shirt back at her.

  “I wanted the blue one, not this one!”

  As Ayesha ran off to get another shirt, his mother asked him what he’d like for supper.

  Monisha rolled her eyes. In this tiny flat, it was as if Shailesh was king and the women were his subordinates; their job being only to fetch and carry. Oh dear God, would she be expected to do the same?

  “Can’t you get your own clothes Shailesh? Do you have some kind of disability?”

  He frowned, irritated at the suggestion. Mrs Kulkarni intercepted. But he worked “sooo” hard at the hospital. Why should he have to do the cooking and cleaning as well?

  Monisha glared at the frail widow. “Well, in the West, men and women work equally hard, and we all have to do the cooking and cleaning.”

  Her words came and went without acknowledgement, for the sound of Seema’s spirited cries filled the air. She was a pretty baby, with a shock of curly black hair, just like her uncle. While Mrs Kulkarni and Ayesha ate their lunch, Shailesh took the child into his room and asked her to join them.

  Monisha pulled out a soft toy from her handbag and handed it to Seema. The crying gradually faded. She lifted her gently, inhaling the soothing smells of talcum powder and coconut oil. Then she imagined cradling her own baby in her arms.

  Shailesh watched them both. “Not long now before our big day.”

  Monisha smiled and nodded. The baby gurgled.

  “I can’t wait,” he added with a twinkle in his eye.

  She melted. This was the Shailesh she remembered from before.

  “You’re going to be part of the family now.”

  Thump! Thump! Her heart started to race. She pushed herself closer to him, so their legs were touching. She raised her hand towards his face, ready to run her fingers through his curls. Stainless-steel plates clanged in the kitchen. Water gushed from a tap.

  He pulled away.

  “I think it’s best if you spend the next couple of days with my mother and Ayesha. I’ll be at work, but I can send you home in the evening.”

  Her arms and legs felt numb.

  He thought it would be best, never mind what she wanted.

  She told him her mother needed her at home, and that there was shopping to finish.

  He shook his head, then lowered it.

  “This is more important. My mother could even teach you a few recipes.”

  The pin-drop silence that ensued was broken when th
e phone rang. It was Aunt Romila. The jeep was on its way. Monisha breathed a sigh of relief and gathered her things.

  12

  The following morning, the house on Sitara Road was heaving. Outside the marquee was being strewn with leaves. The wires for the chandeliers were almost threaded. Mediterranean fan palms and potted roses were arriving in boxes. Gardeners trudged round carrying hose pipes and giant watering cans. Inside, the helpers ran about in a frenzy. Hot oil sizzled and splattered in the kitchen, and the scent of coriander oozed its way out, through the sitting room and towards the hallway. At the dining table, Professor Bastikar tucked into a giant omelette. Aunt Romila and Riya flicked through the newspapers, while Monisha sat with her head in her hands.

  “Shailesh wants me to spend the day with his mother and sister rather than out shopping,” she sighed.

  “Of course he does,” said Aunt Romila, biting into a piece of toast and sipping her black tea. “He wants you to get used to living with them.”

  Monisha gulped, then swallowed. How could everything have changed so quickly? When she’d first met Shailesh, Ayesha was moving to Dubai with her husband.

  “I didn’t think it would end up like this.”

  Aunt Romila burst out laughing. Crumbs flew everywhere. “None of us do!”

  A helper arrived with a plate of crushed chillies. Leela Bastikar sprinkled a spoonful over her omelette. “I knew that his mother would have to stay with Shailesh. But not Ayesha… stupid girl.”

  “Very stupid,” echoed Aunt Romila.

  So they knew about Ayesha’s misadventures! Monisha shifted uncomfortably in her chair. It made sense now, their complete lack of sympathy and how in their eyes she’d amounted to little more than ‘baggage’.

  Riya lifted her head from her newspaper and stared thoughtfully at her cousin and Aunt Leela. If she were the one getting married, she told them, she’d keep out of the way of her in-laws and hit the shops.